


Respite

by mechabre



Category: Guild Wars (Video Game), Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Choking, Dry Humping, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechabre/pseuds/mechabre
Summary: The dragon's reach is long, its grip like iron. Everyone finds their own ways to cope.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this came out a lot less explicit than i intended, and a lot shorter, but i'm not good at writing porn okay. i just really wanted to write canach getting bossed around is that so wrong
> 
> beta'd by tumblr user stokori, very much appreciated

"Canach." The Commander's voice was tense, brittle. "I need to speak with you for a moment."

Canach got up smoothly, replacing his sword on his belt and pocketing the whetstone he’d been using to sharpen it, moving to follow the other Sylvari. This was not the first time he'd been called away like this, and it likely would not be the last. He knew the others were wary, felt especially Braham's hollow eyes track him as he slipped into the thicket after their leader. They trusted the Commander, trusted him with their lives, Sylvari or no -- but Canach, they were not so sure of. Through the urgency of their mission and the roaring in his brain, it was hard to care.

A roaring that came to a peak as a hand grabbed him and wrenched him away, slamming him into the sprawling trunk of a nearby tree, wrists pinned to his sides. Canach grunted, began to fight, but the growl that stilled him was from no mordrem.

"Commander, don't you think it's unwise to keep doing this?" Canach said frankly, even as his breathing quickened. The Commander's eyes were bright, too bright, staring him down from four inches below him, intense and predatory.

"It's so close, now. You can feel it." It wasn't a question. The other Sylvari's voice had a waver that was not of weakness. More like the beginning of a laugh. "I'm not breaking, but I need--" He made a frustrated noise as words failed him. His grip tightened slightly.

"A respite. I know." Canach filled in the gap without missing a beat. Their bodies fit together close, the pressure and the intensity of the Commander's gaze beginning to slow the whirling in his head. "I said — I said only that it was unwise, not that I didn't need it, too."

The Commander grinned like a starving drake. His nails pressed sharp into the unarmored undersides of his wrists, teeth blunt into the tender place where jaw met jugular. Canach squirmed under him. He was not gentle. He left marks, broke skin; little half-moons of teeth and nail marks glowing dimly under the jungle moonlight. The pain was grounding. Canach could taste the sap on his tongue when the Commander yanked him by the back of the head down for a kiss -- no,  less of a kiss, more of a fight, one Canach saw no point in winning.

Canach grabbed at the Commander’s cloak, knowing already that he wouldn’t approve. He didn’t appreciate that kind of affection, Canach had learned. He’d learned much about the Commander in these few, insane weeks, more than he’d ever thought possible. He didn’t seem like a real person before, and in a lot of ways, he still didn’t -- larger than life, a figure of leadership, a guiding light -- but in these moments, in these vicious, desperate breaths, the Commander of the Pact was just as real, just as grimy, just as crooked as the tree trunk digging burls into his back.

Canach had been right. The Commander smacked his hand away, grabbed it, and pulled out of the violent kiss. His lips were parted, bitten, and dry. He hovered there for a moment, panting, eyes like war machines, then thrust Canach vehemently from his grip. His head bumped almost-painful against the wood, jumbled thoughts swirling in his skull.

“On the ground. Now.” 

Canach could do little but obey.

The Commander straddled his hips before Canach was even finished turning over. His slight weight braced against Canach’s wrists was as effective at pinning him down as a boulder. Canach struggled, slightly, just to feel the resistance and hear the Commander’s warning growl. He needed to be in control of something right now, completely, just as much as Canach needed to have any control taken away. 

A strong, slight hand pinned him to the ground by his neck. The muscles in his jaw twitched. There was no time for taking it slow, not even any time for taking it quick, but the Commander didn’t seem to care. He  held him down, his free hand scoring nail-marks down any exposed skin, opening little almost-healed cuts. He found the points that’d been bruised beneath his armor and  _ pressed _ . New pain raced up his spine with the shivers. A small noise rose in Canach’s throat. The hand around his neck tightened, and it died.

They’d be looking for them, soon. The small part of Canach’s brain that was still working fretted as spots began to swim in his vision. The Commander was looking down on him, eyes luminous and piercing in the jungle gloom. It’d already been longer than was safe, and if the others didn’t find them, Mordremoth would. Perhaps some part of them desired that, desired the creeping vines, the devouring, unmaking, the dissolution into a ravenous, unfathomable power --

Canach didn’t know when they started rutting into each other like beasts. Starved of air and stinging with pain, his body greedily responded to whatever stimulus was given to it, and the Commander was relentless. Canach had only been able to steal scattered gasps of air at the discretion of that iron grip, and his head was spinning as the Commander ground their hips together with bruising force. The sparking friction drove the thoughts from Canach’s head with brutal efficiency, leaving him mercifully, mercifully blank, world empty but for the coil of tension in his gut and the paralyzing force of the Commander’s wild eyes.

When Canach came, he came silently, trembling and thrashing on the ground until the Commander loosened his grip enough for a shuddering sigh. He came down from it coughing and gasping, and through the bleary lens of his own tears he witnessed the Commander stiffen and shake, releasing a tiny sigh. He wasn’t always sure if the other Sylvari reached completion during these foolish, stolen moments, but like everything else about this, it seemed out of his control.

They cleaned up in silence. The dragon’s presence was still there, still deafening, but perhaps they’d bought themselves some time. Maybe. Canach winced, rubbing his neck. It was sore; it’d likely bruise. He counted himself lucky that his flesh didn’t show marks easily. No one but Caithe would probably be able to tell, and she knew better than to ask. Canach pulled himself to his feet, feeling perhaps just that much lighter. Perhaps he was only fooling himself.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and found his thoughts interrupted by a little leftover jolt down his spine.

“Canach. It’s time to head back.”

The Commander left, and Canach followed, back to reality, back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: mechabre


End file.
